


The Clouds Will Roll

by theprincessandtheking



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing in the Rain, Med Student Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprincessandtheking/pseuds/theprincessandtheking
Summary: “Clarke!” she hears him call behind her, his voice muffled by the storm. She doesn’t even slow down, her arms folding stubbornly across her chest in both obstinacy and an attempt to stay warm. His truck rolls slowly down the curb to keep pace with her. “Clarke, I know you’re still pissed at me, but it’s pouring. Let me drive you home.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was walking home from class today and got caught in the rain, and this lovely mess came out of it. Enjoy!
> 
> Title inspired by the song "From the Ground Up" by Dan + Shay

By the time Clarke finishes with her histology lab that evening, the light shower that came out of nowhere has intensified to a full blown thunderstorm. The class had run late after her professor at felt the need to ramble on and _on_ about the intercellular matrix, and all she wanted to do was go home and crawl into her warm bed.

She pauses beneath the awning just outside the door of the lab building and swings her backpack around her shoulder. She shoves her hand into the bag, searching for her umbrella with frantic fingers and swearing under her breath when she comes up empty handed. She hastens into the rain, wishing she didn’t normally have such a fondness for walking the few blocks back to her apartment instead of driving her car. The rain already seeps through her sweater, the cold stinging her skin as the water meets the brisk November wind. She pulls the wool more tightly around her shoulders and ducks her head to her chest as she quickens her steps. Her hair is already heavy with dampness, and water droplets cling to her eyelashes and glimmer at the edges of her vision.

Clarke mentally berates herself for leaving her umbrella at home as she trudges through the puddles that collect on the sidewalk. The pools splash with her footsteps, water slipping into her sneakers and dampening her socks to create a sickening squelch with every stride.

She hears the whir of tires against wet pavement and reflexively steps further from the road. Though she’s already drenched, she’s not too keen on getting pelted by water as the car passes. She throws a quick glance over her head to make sure she’ll clear the spray and does a double take when she catches a glimpse of the familiar faded red paint of her boyfriend’s truck.

Bellamy is always headed home around this time of day after his shift at the campus bookstore. Her lab had gone late today, otherwise she probably would have missed him like she usually does, but _of course_ he would pass by her at the perfect time _today_ of all days. His truck slows to a stop at the curb, and Clarke’s eyes roll automatically.

 _Fucking hero complex_ , she thinks.

She’s still angry with him after their fight, his words echoing in her head as she pointedly ignores the vehicle. She had been so excited to find out she’d gotten into ArkU Med, her top choice for medical school that she had rushed over to Bellamy’s apartment to tell him. He’d been just as thrilled, maybe even surprisingly more so, his grin so wide it made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and he’d wrapped her in a hug so tight it caused her ribs to burn with affection. His kiss had been so fierce, so loving, and she could feel his smile against her lips as he pulled her toward his bedroom and proceeded to show her _exactly_ how proud of her he was.

She knows he was just trying to be supportive when he suggested that night at dinner that she call her mom to tell her the news, but the idea had sent her recoiling. Bellamy knew that her mother had played a large role in her father’s decision to refuse chemo a year prior, knew that Clarke would never forgive her for allowing him to stop fighting. She had snapped at him, he had tried to pacify her with words that would really have never soothed her anger.

By that point, Clarke was just looking for a fight, and Bellamy had given her one. Things escalated quickly, and soon they were both angry, saying things in the heat of the moment they knew that neither really meant.  But that was two days ago, and she hadn’t spoken to him since.

From the corner of her eye she sees him roll down the window, and she speeds up.

“Clarke!” she hears him call behind her, his voice muffled by the storm. She doesn’t even slow down, her arms folding stubbornly across her chest in both obstinacy and an attempt to stay warm. His truck rolls slowly down the curb to keep pace with her. “Clarke, I know you’re still pissed at me, but it’s pouring. Let me drive you home.”

She doesn’t respond, her eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk ahead of her.

“Oh yeah, you’re really showing me,” he goads. “Let yourself get soaked in a thunderstorm, that’ll teach me a lesson.”

His tone is sarcastic, but the note of frustration in his voice tells her she’s having that exact effect, and she fights to bury the smirk that pulls at the corners of her mouth. She continues walking for a few moments, Bellamy driving his truck right along next to her.

“God damn it, Clarke,” he swears, and something about the shift in his tone makes her stop in her tracks. His voice is no longer, a note of resignation present that makes Clarke’s brow furrow. “You don’t even have to talk to me.”

He pauses, and she can feel his eyes on her back. Goosebumps raise on her arms that she thinks have nothing to do with the chill that seeps into her skin.

“Please, just—just get in the truck.”

She lets out a sigh, her breath a puff of fog that disperses into the damp air. She says nothing as she walks to the curb, placing a hand on the cold metal of the door handle. She opens the door narrowly, doing her best to keep the rain out as she quickly slides into the seat and slams the door with an anger she doesn’t really feel. Her clothes are sopping wet, and they squeak quietly against the leather seats of the old truck.

Bellamy keeps his promise and remains silent for the entire drive. The air between them is awkward, which is not at all common for them. In the three and a half years since they met at freshman orientation, they’d developed habit of allowing themselves to fall into comfortable silences. They were typically content to just be in each other’s presence, no words needed as they quietly studied next to each other or enjoyed the sunshine on the Quad.

She thinks back to how much he irritated her when they first met, young and vibrant with a cocky grin and a belief he was invincible. He thinks of how much he has grown—how much they have both grown, both suffering the loss of a parent during their time in college. She remembers how they bonded over their grief, starting with the tentative friendship that developed after his mother’s car accident and fortifying itself with Clarke’s father’s cancer diagnosis a year later. They have come to rely on each other, to need each other.

It was only a matter of time before their relationship developed even further, solid friendship slowly morphing into something more, something loving and tender. She remembers the way it felt the first time she kissed him, tentative but more  _right_ than she had ever felt with any other kiss in her life.

Her eyes flick to his face hesitantly, allowing her a glance at his expression. He is focused intently on the road, lips taut and forehead lined with the thoughts that seem to envelope him. A muscle in his jaw jumps in time with his turn signal, and his brakes squeal a moment later as he brings the truck to a stop in the parking lot of her apartment complex.

He keeps eyes forward and lets out a long breath so quiet in comparison to the rain that rattles against the windshield that Clarke wonders if she imagines it. She hates this. She hates the uncomfortable silence, hates the tension between them, hates the fact that she let herself to take her anger at her mother out on him.

She swallows hard as she allows herself to look at him directly for the first time since he pulled up to the curb.

“Thank you,” she says, and though her voice is soft, it seems to echo off the walls of the truck’s cab.

His eyes are sad when he turns to meet her gaze.

“Clarke—"

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, and the instant the words are out of her mouth, it feels like they might never stop. “I’m sorry for what I said the other day. I was angry at my mom and scared about medical school, and I snapped at you because you were there and happy for me and it’s just,” she pauses, swallowing hard against the dryness that has appeared in her throat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone around to be supportive for the big stuff like that. I was scared, and I took it out on you. And I’m so sorry, Bellamy.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his brown eyes warm as they flit across her face. After a few seconds, he lets out a deep sigh.

“We both said things we shouldn’t have,” he says, one of his large hands sliding up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, too.”

He lifts the arm closest to her, and Clarke slides across the seat of the truck and tucks herself into the warmth of his side with a shiver. She stifles a laugh at the way his body tenses against the cold dampness of her sweater, and his hand rubs her arm to warm her. She feels him press her lips into the top of his hair.

“I love you,” he tells her. “So much. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she says, her face nudging gently against the soft fabric of his flannel shirt. “I love you, too, Bellamy.”

They stay like that for several minutes, enjoying the comfortable silence that has been restored and listening to the drum of the rain on the metal roof. Clarke takes a deep breath before she speaks again.

“I called my mom,” she whispers.

She feels, rather than hears, his surprised intake of breath against her cheek. He doesn’t answer right away, seeming to take a moment to decide how to respond.

“Yeah?”

She nods against his chest.

“She’s excited.”

The rumble of his laugh against her ear does funny things to her heart, and she feels herself smile despite the bittersweet topic.

“Of course, she is,” he says, and she can hear in his voice that he has a smile of his own stretching across his face. “Her brilliant daughter just got into one of the best med schools in the country. How could she not be?”

Her grin widens, and she finally pulls away from his side to look at him. His eyes sparkle with pride, and the way the soft light of the afternoon bounces off of his freckles makes her slightly breathless. She can’t help herself as she leans forward to press a kiss to his lips. It’s gentle and sweet, her hand coming up to weave her fingers into the dark curls that brush the nape of his neck. His own comes to her face, thumb softly stroking the line of her jaw.

She pulls away some time later with a satisfied smile, and for the first time in two days she feels like she can breathe freely again. Her hand finds his easily, and she trails her fingers over the backs of his knuckles lovingly.

“Do you want to come up?” she offers. “I can cook dinner.”

He snorts.

“You can’t cook.”

She rolls her eyes in mock indignation.

“Can too,” she says, “Would you prefer macaroni and cheese or cheese and macaroni?”

He laughs as he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“How about _I_ cook, and you tell me more about ArkU Med?” he offers. “I’d like to at least know _something_ about where we’re going to be living this time next year.”

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat.

“We?”

Bellamy’s eyes widen. They begin to shift to look at everything but her as he seems to scramble for words.

“Oh,” he stutters, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he searches for the right thing to say. “I thought—I mean, I just _assumed_ …. But of course I don’t _have_ to—"

Her lips meet his before he can finish the muddled thought. This kiss is much firmer, much more heated than the last as their mouths move fervently against each other. His tongue slips into her mouth to deepen the kiss, and before she knows it the windows of his truck are foggy as they pant to catch their breath.

They scramble out of the cab and rejoin at the hood of the truck, paying no mind to the rain that still streams from the sky and drenches their skin. His hands desperately palm at her waist, at her hips, at anything he can reach, and soon they are stumbling up the staircase with waterlogged skin and dripping hair. Clarke fumbles with the key to the door, and at last they are inside and relieving themselves of wet clothing that now leaves a trail to her bedroom.

 

By the time they make their way to the kitchen to start on dinner a few hours later, Bellamy’s flannel no longer soaking wet as it clings to Clarke’s shoulders, their hair is dry and their hearts are light.


End file.
